


Empty

by Minkey222



Series: Peter. P vents [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Depression, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, This is a vent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 16:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20567699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkey222/pseuds/Minkey222
Summary: Ouch.The buzzing of his phone against the surface was unnecessarily loud and obnoxious, drawing all his attention to it and away from his own problems.He had thought that he had gotten them through their own problems recently, given them a reason to live, to hope, to survive the night and the terror that the darkness and loneliness drag out in the witching hours envoke.Apparently not it seems.





	Empty

**Author's Note:**

> Lol another vent. I really be going through it atm. lol love that for me.

Stilling his hand, the razor between his fingers dropping to clatter against the hard ceramic of the sink, lazy stripes of red bubble up and float along the curves and crevices of the meaty part of his upper thigh, dripping down over his knee and onto his shin, eventually dying and drying around his ankle, save a particularly deep sever whose stream was unrelenting and flowed down further still, forming a puddle on the tiles and fuelling little rivers in the grouting dents.

Peter sighed, grabbing a wad of tissue and pressing it against the gouge.

Ouch.

The buzzing of his phone against the surface was unnecessarily loud and obnoxious, drawing all his attention to it and away from his own problems.

He had thought that he had gotten them through their own problems recently, given them a reason to live, to hope, to survive the night and the terror that the darkness and loneliness drag out in the witching hours envoke.

Apparently not it seems.

Shaking his head, wiping the tears from his cheeks with a roll of his eyes, one that makes him feel the piercing stab of guilt, and a hitch of his breath, Peter uses one hand to grab the phone and the other to keep a hold of the quickly dampening tissue against his leg. 

“I’m worthless and can’t do anything right,”

The sentence is definitive and doesn’t garner an argument. Had he been sent his a few months ago he would have floundered for an answer, gone soul searching with a chill down his spine and a fire under his ass. He would have found not quite eloquent but unequivocally emotional words, sent sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph disputing the statement like he would for an AP literature essay, shaking with unsaid words as his mind works harder than he can even type or comprehend. Now, though, Peter responds almost through muscle memory. The sentence may be new but the underlying self-hatred and diminishing of character are clear and familiar. Peter can do familiar, repetition is easy. But with every repetition Peter seems to lose more of himself in the words that he rights, giving little pieces of himself to them in order to keep them afloat. It works but at what cost? In the beginning, Peter could list everything that he liked about them, their mannerisms and quirks, felt a passion burning in his chest and he spilt every little thing and loved and cherished about them.

Now though, Peter feels nothing but empty as he struggles to even remember what colour their eyes are.

What their smile looks like.

... _ I hate myself so much _

_ So many people love you... _

Wincing as his fingers shift slightly, disturbing the deeply throbbing wound, Peter readjusts his grip as he continues to type, the sound of his fingers tapping the screen and his shallow breathing the only sounds in the room. The texts are relentless and he can imagine the accompanying hitching, deep sobs and uneven breaths, tears that run across your face and soak into your pillow, fist in their mouth to muffle the noise, trying to stay as quiet as possible to avoid waking up other people in the house.

Luckily for Peter, he’s home alone.

Breathing deeply as his protesting messages are rejected and debunked Peter continues to rapidly fire off, line after line, barely registering his own responses, typed so often as they are. Peter fears that they’ll see straight through his statements, the messages that he has reused, reworded and recycled so often now that he can barely remember the first time he used them. He knows that in the beginning the words had meaning, were backed with a strength that he didn’t even know he had. Now they are just lines on a screen that his blurry dry eyes can hardly pick apart and decipher.

_ … I’m disgusting _

_ You’re not disgusting... _

Peter is tired. So tired. But the flickering yellow light in the bathroom is unrelenting and forces him to keep his mind focused despite his empty gaze. Numb. That’s what Peter is now and it horrifies him to no end that he feels nothing more than a distant brush of panic at the suffering and pain in their comments.

His skin itches where the blood has dried and crusted completely, flaking off in rusty chunks. The little pool at his feet coagulating and separating, gelatinous. Most of the cuts have stopped altogether, weeping platelets as they begin to scab over. The deepest cut has slowed but not stopped, continuing to ooze, not as quickly as before but still managing to bleed through the tissue yet again. 

His fingers are stiff, cold but Peter doesn’t feel it as he pries his fingers off of the bloodied paper and folds a new wad. 

_ … I would be better off dead _

_ No, you wouldn’t… _

There’s a buzzing in Peter’s ears as he types, the edges of his vision blurring in and out, black and spotting in places.

His phone says that it's 1:30 am or thereabout. 

He really can’t tell. 

(is that a 1 or a 7. is that a 3 or an 8 or a 6. is that a 0 or a 9. is that a…)

His words shift and swerve on his phone, twirling and dancing and leaping over one another as he tries to type, their meanings and spellings escaping him as he thinks, only coming into clarity when a stray finger presses deep into his shredded flesh, parting skin and scab and blood, probing in, deep and deeper and even deeper yet until a fresh spout pours out, down, following the previous river but faster this time, urgent release, like a dam has been broken.

Peter sighs again, grabbing more tissue to mop up the excess, trying to avoid staining the tiles yet again just so he doesn’t have to further himself to grab the bleach, saving himself the trouble of getting to his knees and scrubbing.

The messages have slowed now, shorter and calmer, it seems that Peter has helped and the fear that he’ll be exposed as a faker, as a liar, a cheat and an emotionless robot that has no place in human society, a fear that breathes down his neck has retreated a step or two into his mind, allowing him to breathe a little deeper, expand his ribs a little more, feeling the bones creak and groan as he stretched.

“Thanks, Peter, you’re a good friend,”

But is he though? Is he really?

“I think I’ll go to bed now,”

Peter doesn’t think he’ll sleep tonight.

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

_ ...Yeah, I’ll see you at school… _

His final message leaves an empty ringing space between his ears. The apartment settling into silence even stronger than before, almost as if Peter had been speaking aloud and now had been silenced.

He rubs his aching eyes.

Huffs a breath.

Grabbing the razor out of the sink and rinsing the blood off of it under the tap, Peter notes that the bleeding from his leg has slowed enough that he can finally put a plaster on it.

Covering the cuts it seems to put a cap on the events of the night. A full stop at the end of a sentence.

Now Peter can continue onto the next page.

Walking out of the bathroom Peter retreats into his room, sitting at his desk.

Now that that’s over with maybe he can get a start on this homework. 

Peter guesses it’s not going to do itself.

**Author's Note:**

> started strong didn't know how to finish. Whoops.


End file.
